


A month to the day

by AnyaMaia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Gen, Werewolves, werewolf!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:12:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnyaMaia/pseuds/AnyaMaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Exactly one month. One heart-breaking, gut wrenching, soul destroying month. One month in which he had wholeheartedly believed that the man; the careless, idiotic, and devastatingly brilliant man, would make himself known. There had been nothing. The waterlogged Were let his eyes fall once more to the black slab in front of him before slowly closing them against his distress. He had failed his kin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A month to the day

 

It was a month to the day.

Exactly one month. One heart-breaking, gut wrenching, soul destroying month. One month in which he had wholeheartedly believed that the man; the careless, idiotic, and devastatingly brilliant man, would make himself known. Would pull off that one, perfect, final miracle. Would return from the dead. 31 long days. And nothing. Nothing but the emptiness inside gnawing on his very bones.

Now he was standing in the dismal, wet graveyard as dusk fell. Standing before the cold black marble staring at his name. All that was left of the fascinating man. The cold, grey air clung to the figure like a second skin, dampness seeping in. Natures balm- as though the world was intent on chilling the burning heat, the pain coursing through him, the delicate twisting, blistering agony of his heart. Nature could try, but he knew she would fail.

Then the rain came, ice-cold and with an aggressive intensity. Dashing from the sky, rushing to meet the ground… Suddenly the memories crashed unbidden across his conscious mind… the raindrops falling, rushing… just like he had-     The blonde man cut the thought off viciously.

He fell to his knees on the sodden earth. Water pooled instantly around the small wells that had formed upon his impact and it quickly began to leech into the fabric of his jeans. He watched it idly for a moment, indifferent as the material became saturated and heavy. It weighed upon him; a cloying dampness that hugged his legs in an icy embrace. He did nothing to stay the claws of the bitter cold as the wind against the wet-frozen fabric bit into his thighs.

The rain ran in rivulets down his neck and past the open collar of his jacket, seeping into the shirt below. The jacket did nothing for him. He wanted to feel the rain. He wanted to feel the bite of the water and wind on his soft white flesh. He wanted the pain and the inevitable numbness that would follow. He unzipped the jacket and cast it aside. He sat back on his heels and uncaringly let the deluge consume him.

The grave was still fresh enough that the grass had not set and he could feel the looseness of the earth just below the thin green layer. The grave. His grave. All that was left of him now was buried beneath his knees. Rotting. Slowly. A corpse. Like so many they had seen together. Corpses. That might seem like a strange statement to some he thought idly. But not to them; the consultant detective and his blogger. A small, sad smile played across his face momentarily before twisting and giving way to the grimace that reflected the blonde man’s inner torture.

They were more than that weren’t they? More than merely the detective and his blogger. They had to be more than that, there had to be more to say. This pain, this all-consuming agony… they were more than that, at least in his eyes. They were more.

They were friends; at the very least he could say they were friends. No, not just friends, they were best friends. But still, that description wasn’t adequate. Still there was more.

He knew the truth deep down, had known all along. He’d simply buried it upon its realisation, upon its inception. Worried about the detectives thoughts and feelings, scared of rejection, worried about the others finding out, scared of the consequences if they did. So much worry and fear… and now it meant nothing. Now he would gladly risk them knowing, would gladly tell his detective, would gladly peel away the defensive layers and bare his very soul itself just to look at his face again.

Because the honest reality that the blonde had been hiding was they were kin, they were brothers… they were pack. Even if the other infuriating man had never known, had never, despite his massive intellect been able to see the truth of it, been able to see the truth of his blogger. The blogger had known. The blogger had understood. _His_ blogger, _his_ kin, _his_ brother, _his_ pack. _His_ by choice alone; not by birth right, nor by blood.

His pack. Kin. Instinct drove him to defend and protect, to keep his kin safe, to keep his kin close. He had tried. He had kept him as safe as he had known how to, he had risked his own hide for him, he had bled for him and fought for him and-The waterlogged Were let his eyes fall once more to the black slab in front of him before slowly closing them against his distress. He let his head drop to his chest limply, taking a moment to feel the stabbing of his frozen nerves protesting against the wind and rain battering his body. He had failed his kin.

The cutting wind lashed the rain in icy tendrils against his raw flesh. He felt the numb paralysis, borne of lack of blood and unresponsive neurones, in his heavy arms. He left them where they lay at his sides, fingers tinged blue in frigid desperation lying prone on the muddy earth. It really didn’t matter anymore… if he lost digits to the biting cold it really didn’t matter. He had no use for them now - he had no kin left to protect.

Slowly he felt his body start to rebel, start to protest without his authorisation. Muscles twitching, flinching, trembling of their own accord. His teeth snapping out an odd, disjointed rhythm as he fought to control the dissenting muscles in his jaw. Finally he gave up, letting his body do as it wished; letting it try to warm him, to save itself from damage. His mind didn’t care anymore because his mind understood what his body could not – that his soul was damaged beyond repair, that he was haemorrhaging life itself and simply getting warm would not be enough to plug the leak.

His brain seemed to be fogged like the air around him but with a sudden and sickening clarity he remembered the fateful words he had said to the detective before he left him… before he abandoned him. _Friends protect people._  It wasn’t what he had wanted to say. He wanted to say _kin. Kin protect people,_ as much as they were people, and he wanted to tell the insufferable man that after each other Mrs. Hudson was the next closest thing that either of them had. But he didn’t, he hadn’t, he simply said friends… and he failed the man even in that capacity.

He was dimly aware that the trembling had now become a violent shaking that was consuming his entire body. The thought sparked across his sluggish synapses suddenly leaving a trail of dancing white light in its wake - this wasn’t merely a shivering reflex, not any longer, his body was pulling out all the stops and making a strategic move. He had time to wonder briefly at its amazing intelligence. The subconscious part of his brain had assessed the situation, looked for a solution, found the answer and was acting on it before his conscious mind was even aware of the possibility. It seemed his subconscious was less happy about the prospect of simply giving in to the haemorrhage here and now in the frigid graveyard.

He felt the wolf stir and he didn’t fight it. His glacial limbs were dead weights, entirely unresponsive to his attempts to wield them into standard change position. Instead he simply allowed himself to topple over sideways and lay on the sodden earth as the change gripped his spine and fire flooded through his veins. He focused on the change momentarily, pushed it along the length of his spine, pushed the change beyond the tipping point. Now there was no stopping it. He lay back and simply let it take him.

He relished the near exquisite levels of torture the change inflicted on his body as tendons snapped and bones broke. He concentrated on the pain, focussed on his suffering; suffering for his abandonment and betrayal of his kin.

If he was honest with himself he had desired the detective as more than kin, he had wanted a deeper bond. Undoubtedly not what he would have wanted came a crushing thought and guilt quickly seeped into him… then again he certainly wouldn’t mind now. Not anymore. He didn’t care about anything anymore. Because he was gone.

_Alone is what I have, alone protects me._ Alone was all the Were had now. Alone… again… he felt the hot tears merge with the rain water and wash down his still-human cheeks. Ordinarily he might feel ashamed but not now, not here. Here it was just him, him and Sherlock; his dead best friend. And he was sure he wouldn’t mind at all.

With the echo of his friends words ricocheting around his brain he felt the final ripples of the change consume him. Snapping, grating, grinding as his skull reformed and the caustic burn washing over his flesh as it sprouted coarse, dense fur. The change hadn’t taken as long as he expected. He had expected the exquisite pain to last longer. Perhaps the agony of his soul had urged him towards this simpler, animalistic state. Perhaps it was his muscles protesting at the cold that had surged forward ready to realign, knowing the warmth of the wolfs coat.  It no longer mattered to the Were.

Panting from exertion he scrambled to his feet shedding the shredded remains of his human trappings. The ricocheting thought focussed in his mind once more, _alone_. He raised his nose to the darkened sky letting the pain pour out in a single unbroken cry. The wolf listened for a moment when his call came to an end, as though he might hear a familiar voice calling back to him, but no cry came. With a quiet whine he gave the headstone a final, desperate look.

Then he fled the graveyard as though the hounds of hell themselves were on his tail.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I may decide to extend this fic at some point in the future... I certainly have some ideas for where it could/where I would want it to go... but I'm making no promises because I don't want to end up breaking them! Also, I think this works rather well as a one-shot of werewolf angst!
> 
> All I'll say is that whilst I'm marking the story as complete at the moment if you enjoyed it it may be worth keeping an eye out for updates in future!


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